


Christmas Crime Carol

by TerraCherry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Christmas, Fluff, Love, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraCherry/pseuds/TerraCherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the first Christmas after "The Fall". Sherlock and John track a killer who leaves Christmassy notes at the murder scenes. Additionally, unsolved feelings occupy their thoughts and hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hope you will enjoy this Christmas coloured piece! One night, the beginning of this story popped in my head and I wrote it down but I thought it would never grow into full story (or at least nothing more than a fluffy oneshot). But it did, after some kind muse sent me an idea for the case.
> 
> The places in this story are real but all the characters are fictitious. Allowing artistic freedom, of course. More notes about the place Sherlock and John go in the first chapter in the end notes of the chapter.
> 
> Be kind to my mistakes! ;)

**01.12**

 

Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street from his trip to New Scotland Yard. This case of kidnapping was wrapped up and Sherlock hoped it wouldn’t be too long until the next intriguing crime popped up to be unravelled. Entering the sitting room, he caught John going through plain cardboard boxes.

“Oh no, do you we have to do this every year?”

“Hello Sherlock. Yes, I think we do.”

“The whole city becomes saturnine and everything will be so very boring!” He threw his hands in the air dramatically.

“Oh c’mon now Sherlock, it’s not that bad. Humour me at least,” John replied. He knew there was a bit of a show in Sherlock’s rant; sure he would get bored if ordinary life continued on for too long but after… After “The Fall”, as they simply addressed it, he had shown a newly found appreciation for the peaceful moments in between. John was the only person he admitted it to though.

“Alright. Anything for you.”

John smiled warmly at his flatmate.

Flatmate. Colleague. Friend. The safe words to describe him. When Sherlock had returned from the dead John had been assumedly confused and had wanted to hug, punch, kiss and strangle him at the same time. He had resorted with a punch and a hug. Punching your best friend was not very nice behaviour but neither was faking one’s death and leaving others in paralyzing grief. Punch was tender as a feather compared to that. After the initial storm of emotions, the life had shifted back to similar flow as before. And John was left still confused about _everything_. But he was thankful to have Sherlock back in his life, in any way, and didn’t push his luck by asking anything more at the moment. And he wasn’t sure if he even wanted more than this. Or what Sherlock thought, what he felt. He was surely a hard person to read, even if John did it better than anyone else, with a sole exception of Mycroft maybe, who was dangerously perceptive and much more secretive than his little brother of the extent of his skills.

“Great. Now, come here and help me with the decorations.” John picked up some Christmas lights and festoons from the box he had been rummaging. Soon the flat had received a Christmassy icing on its already decorative look. John nodded contently. This was the first Christmas after The Fall and John hoped they could spend it in peace.

 

**21.12**

 

Sherlock’s mobile phone chimed. He lifted his gaze from his experiment of decomposing rate of body parts when exposed to various substances. He had started it at Baker Street but John had been very vocal about having chemical covered rotting fingers et cetera in the kitchen in Christmas and asked him to move the experiment to St. Bart’s lab. Sherlock had argued (holidays were days just like any other!) but John had switched on his “captain mode” and ordered him to either take “the biohazard” to appropriate environment or face the extermination of the test subjects. Thus, Sherlock had been popping in to St. Bart’s every day to survey the results.

He unlocked his phone and read the text message from Lestrade: “Body found, 17 Sussex St. Killer in Xmas mood, take a look?”

Sherlock smirked and texted back that he would come and sent another text to John: “Case! Meet me at Sussex St 17 immediately. –SH”

As Sherlock hurried out to catch a cab, his mobile jingled again for answer from John: “On my way.”

 

Sherlock arrived the crime scene first. A couple of small shops and a closed restaurant stood by the street. The upper floor apartment windows were lit with holiday lights. Detective Inspector Lestrade was talking with another officer in front of the restaurant and Sherlock was going to talk to him when John’s taxi stopped at the corner of the crossing street.

“So, what’s the case?” John asked as soon as he reached his friend.

“Don’t know yet, let’s go and find out.” They joined Lestrade at the door of the restaurant which had its windows covered with brown cardboard.

“Sherlock. John.” Lestrade greeted with a bob of his head. “Come in.”

The restaurant was being renovated: tools and materials stood on the side of the main room, alongside a plastic bag that served as the garbage bin, filled mostly with take away coffee cups. The floor was covered with saw and plaster dust but even Sherlock couldn’t tell much about footprints since the killer’s possible prints were lost among the workers’.

“The victim is a 42-year-old man called Ronald Hark, he was found by the new owner of this place, Milla Gurov. You can ask her questions after my people are done. Here, the body was found in the kitchen,” Lestrade filled them in. They entered the kitchen area which had still some working tops in place but clearly they were in the process of being replaced too. Hark was lying on his back, in the middle of the room. He was approximately the same height as John but he was plump in figure. He was wearing a white unbuttoned dress shirt, jeans and simple leather black leather shoes but there was no sign of jacket or other outdoor clothes. Instead he had a Santa hat on his head and on his chest a number 21 in a rectangle, drawn with something white. He had a clear bruise circling his neck. Sherlock kneeled next to the body to examine it closer.

“John?” Sherlock called for the doctor who crouched to check the condition of the body too.

“Dead for more than 12 hours, he’s been in a tighter space than this before rigor mortis, as his arms are so close to the body and legs firmly together. Death by cerebral ischemia or asphyxia or combination of them from the strangulation with rope, which you can tell yourself as well.” John gave his diagnosis and raised slightly amused eyes at his friend.

“I like hearing a professional’s opinion as well.”

“Yeah, right.” John got up. Despite the show he put up he actually liked that Sherlock asked him to give his input and he knew Sherlock knew it as well.

“Do you have any more information about him yet?” John turned to Lestrade.

“Nope, my people are on it though. He had only his wallet with him.”

“Can we have a look at it?”

“Sure.” Lestrade motioned to a young policewoman. He took the evidence bag from her and dismissed her with a nod. Sherlock got up and snatched the bag from DI’s hands. He quickly went through the contents of the wallet: an ID, some cash, cards, receipts and a picture of a little girl.

“He’s single, frequent at Marks & Spencer, most of the receipts are from there you see, either he lives near and goes to work elsewhere or works at M&S and lives further away. There is an Oyster Card. He does office work; his hands aren’t callused except for a bump in his right middle finger. Writer’s callus can form when pen is used frequently, especially if the person uses a lot of force when writing. Sure nowadays he mostly uses computer but must’ve written a lot with pen earlier in his life. He’s not exactly wealthy but not struggling with money either, his clothes are good quality but not that expensive brands and judging by the receipts he doesn’t need to watch the money too closely. And the girl –“ Sherlock took her picture out of the picture pocket to look at it more closely, and noticed there was a paper slip too. It was normal quality printer paper which had a line written in Times New Roman font: _21: Then why should men on earth be so sad, since our Redeemer made us glad_.

Sherlock read it out loud.

“21? Like the number in Hark’s chest,” muttered John.

“There was a similar paper found yesterday on a murder victim at Balham, on Wexford Road,” Lestrade mentioned.

“There was? What did it say?” Sherlock turned his intense gaze from the paper to Lestrade.

“I don’t remember the exact words but it had a number too. 20.”

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh.

“It’s a date,” he claimed. “It’s like... an advent calendar.”

“Kinda morbid one,” John remarked dryly.

“The girl has similar features, she’s probably a daughter or a nephew,” Sherlock mentioned but dismissed the photo as unimportant.

“The number and rectangle are drawn with sugar glaze, the Santa hat has been in use, there’s dried sweat inside. As John said, he was strangled with a rope but not here. It was easy to cover the body with some sort of plastic wrapping and carry him inside, any possible eyewitnesses would assume it was something for the renovation. The killer has strength then, or help. I’d like to have chat with Ms Gurov and then come to Scotland Yard to see the files of yesterday’s victim.”

A challenge! Sherlock was almost bouncing up and down; nothing was more interesting than untangling these kinds of webs where the killer had actually used their brain a bit more than an average thug.

They went outside to meet the owner of the restaurant. She was wrapped in a shock blanket and slowly sipping tea from take away cup. Her body was tall and trained. She had brown sharp bobcut and watery blue eyes which had a distraught look in them.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend John Watson, we have some questions.”

“Evening. Milla Gurov. I don’t know much but go on.” Her English was accented.

“Tell us when and how you found the body,” Sherlock demanded. Suddenly a thought crossed John’s mind: since when Sherlock had started using “we” and “us” like that? In fact, he did it too. John couldn’t help the corners of his lips from curling a bit upwards. He hoped it just looked he was trying to comfort Ms Gurov. He pushed the other thoughts aside and focused on listening to her.

“It was around half eight, I merely came to check the place, I’ve been wanting my own restaurant for years, this is my baby and I want to be sure it’s going well. It’s going to be a Slavic restaurant, I’m from Ukraine,” Ms Gurov explained.

“Yes yes, then you saw the body?”

“Yes, the restaurant was dark, I put on the lights and saw the body. I called the police right away.”

“Do you know Mr Hark?”

“No, I haven’t ever seen or heard about him.”

“What do you think about the workers?” Asked John.

“They seem okay but of course I haven’t been here all the time. They can come and go quite freely.” Ms Gurov seemingly felt bad about not being able to say more. “The police have the contact information if you want to ask them questions too.”

“Is there anyone who would have something against you or your restaurant?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I don’t think so. I have few friends, I trust them and my old co-workers were very supportive. I’m still looking for the employees except for one cook.”

“Okay, that’s all.” Sherlock announced bluntly.

“Thank you Ms Gurov, good luck with the restaurant.” John gave her a little encouraging smile.

“Thanks. I hope you catch the criminal.”

John hurried after Sherlock.

“She clearly doesn’t know anything. Either it’s one of the workers, which would be stupid because of course they are the first suspects, or the murderer chose the place randomly or for yet unknown reason. And I don’t believe this killer chooses places pointing blindly at the map.”

“Mmh.”

“Lestrade! We head to the Yard, let’s meet there.” Sherlock waved his hand at the DI.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sussex Street indeed has a restaurant but as I was doing research for this fic, it looked like it had just closed. I don't know what's happening to it now. The closing suited my story perfectly though, thus Ms Gurov and her upcoming Slavic restaurant are totally my creation, so stretching a bit that "all places are real" note there.


	2. Chapter 2

They were in Lestrade’s office going through the files of the Wexford Road’s murder. The short Wexford Road was lined with beautiful brick buildings and the killer had been very sneaky because no one had seen anything unusual even in such a tight packed neighbourhood. The buildings almost touched each other, so the killer had probably come boldly by the road. The body had been found in one of the garbage bins which had been emptied the day before. The victim was Scott Patterson, 55-year-old and unemployed. Except, he had been acting as Father Christmas at Tesco’s during December. He had been married without kids, his wife was a nurse. Patterson was 5’8’’, sturdy build, greying and the relatives and friends said he had been a good man, trying to find new job after his earlier employer had gone bankrupt. He had good relationship with his wife and his close relatives, he absolutely didn’t strike as a man who would have enemies. The killer hadn’t “decorated” the body like Hark’s but there was indeed similar paper slip with a line in Times New Roman, found in his coat pocket.

_20: Good people all, this Christmas time, consider well and bear in mind, what our good God for us has done in sending his beloved son._

“Preacher killer.” Lestrade had probably seen more than one or two fanatic cases during his career.

“Wait, Sherlock, could you repeat it?” A bell rang in John’s head. Sherlock recited the lines again.

“Oh yes, it’s a Christmas carol. “Good People All, This Christmas Time”, or also known as The Wexford Carol.”

“Ah! Brilliant, John!” Sherlock beamed at him and John grinned back. Lestrade was almost, but only almost, used to feeling a sort of third wheel with these two.

“Let’s check the other one.” The detective spun Lestrade’s laptop around without asking permission and typed “then why should men on earth be so sad, since our Redeemer made us glad” in Google, guessing it would be another carol.

“Bingo! It’s from The Sussex Carol, sometimes referred to by the first line “On Christmas night all Christians sing”,” Sherlock said with glee.

“Wordplays...” Lestrade hoped there were more clues in the lines, even if it was hard to spot a pattern from only two subjects.

“Wexford Carol’s lines are the first four lines but Sussex Carol’s are from the second stanza. Both mention Jesus, in different words, both suggest people should be glad and grateful for him,” the detective gathered from the Internet search.

“Most religious carols do,” John remarked.

There was a knock on the door. Lestrade told the knocker to come in.

“Sheffield, you have something on the Hark case?”

“Yes,” he answered and carried on, knowing Sherlock and John were allowed to hear the details. “Hark was a single, never married, no children. He worked at Marks & Spencer as internal publicist.”

Sherlock smirked and John gave him a mock-scolding gaze.

“He lived in Islington, had no criminal records. His sister and her family are the closest relatives alive, he had good relationship with them, usually spent holidays at their place. He had a day off yesterday but had agreed to play Santa at the Oxford Street department store when their regular Santa had become ill,” Sheffield summarized.

“So, he was a Father Christmas too, a connection?” John pondered aloud.

“Could be, could be.” Sherlock nodded.

“So all Santas in London are in danger?” Lestrade frowned.

“Possibly.” Sherlock shrugged. There wasn’t much they could do until there was more data.

“If the carols form a pattern, there are clues in them then but that’s a little too vague now,” John agreed but grimaced.

“We’ll wait for the next murder then?” Lestrade didn’t look happy.

“Yes.”

 

The air was crispy when they stepped out of cab back in the Baker Street, temperature hanging around zero Celsius. The tattered grey clouds sailed in front the velvety sky splattered with stars.

“Nice to see the stars,” John said.

“Mmm. Although they are just burning gas balloons and not even useful like our star,” stated Sherlock matter-of-factly.

“What? I thought you deleted the Solar System and such.” John blinked in surprise and stopped in front of the door.

“I had a lot of time when I had to... keep low profile.”

“So you decided knowing a bit about planets and stars out there could be useful after all?” John couldn’t help teasing. Sherlock was silent for a moment.

“Yes.” He quickly grasped John’s arm to prevent him from going in just yet and gave him a very serious look. “But don’t tell anyone.”

John burst into laughter.

“Oh your pride! You’re the most unthinkable person on this planet,” John chuckled. Sherlock scowled.

“But I like you just the way you are. Except when you create biohazards in the kitchen,” John said with a smile. He turned to unlock the door.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you,” said Sherlock quietly. His friend spun around again, now blocking the access to the stairs.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” John assured, looking into Sherlock light blue eyes and smiling.

“C’mon, I know you didn’t,” Sherlock smiled back. It was a genuine smile, one he rarely let on his face, one stripped of any hidden agendas or facades or sarcasm.

“It’s good though, your update on the Solar System,” John smirked. Sherlock gave a little rumbling laugh.

“And... I mean it, I like you just like that, unthinkable, impossible and brilliant,” John said and ascended the steps to their flat.

 

He abstained from running up the stairs. That unthinkable man he left standing in the hallway had set John’s heart racing when he had turned back to him to make sure he hadn’t hurt him. He didn’t know why such a surge of emotions had surfaced in that particular moment, there had been zillion instants like this before. All of a sudden he had thought how much he cared about Sherlock and how he couldn’t imagine going to a different life anymore. They were living on the edge, in the shade of danger, in the heart of thrill. And they were in it together and while John could have done without the period thinking Sherlock was dead, he wouldn’t give his time with Sherlock away for anything; without him he would still be staring at the empty pages of his blog, depressed and miserable, merely existing instead of living. But now he was teetering on the see-saw, wanting more and fearing for rejection. He had asked countless women on dates without much hesitation. But to be honest, that wasn’t the same as this, at all. Then he had had nothing to lose and this was much more serious than asking someone out. He hadn’t expected to fall for his eccentric flatmate, he didn’t generally like men that way. But then Sherlock Holmes happened. Sherlock was special. Oh yes, he loved that man.

He should have just kissed him when he had come back, at least then he could’ve blamed the messed up emotions or something if Sherlock had thought he had lost his mind.

John took slow, deep breaths. Perhaps he should just tell Sherlock. This uncertainness was tiring.

 

“I like you too,” Sherlock whispered after him when he couldn’t hear it anymore.

Like. Of course he liked John. He was loyal, intriguing, liked solving crimes with him, put up with his mood swings and had saved his life more than once or twice. He was skilful doctor and soldier, voice of reason when needed but mad enough run through the streets of London in pursuit of armed criminals, funny and trustworthy. And John forgave him even after he had faked his death without letting him know about it. Forgave but didn’t forget, wouldn’t forget. And it was only fair, Sherlock had seen it now.

Like. That didn’t seem strong enough expression. Sherlock wasn’t a “people person” but he liked Mrs Hudson. He could say he liked Lestrade. He liked Mummy, most of the time. Molly was likable sometimes and he did appreciate her help. Mycroft? He used to like him, now he tolerated him, he was too complex a case. But John, he was much more than those people combined. John Watson, the exception to almost every rule in Sherlock’s world. Sure Sherlock lost a nerve with him from time to time; when John turned into a mother hen or acted like all grief in the world was Sherlock’s fault. They yelled at each other about experiments, John nagged about dull things like groceries, was displeased with Sherlock playing violin at 3 am and borrowing his laptop and they argued over numerous little things. But in the end that was all secondary. Sherlock was impatient and John, despite his calm and cool manner, was quite fiery personality underneath. That’s just how they were.

Did he love John? In this whole wide world, John Watson was the only person he loved, and probably the only one he ever would love.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The Sussex Carol's first text date to 17th century but the version usually sung today is from the beginning of 20th century, collected by Ralph Vaughan Williams.
> 
> 2) The Wexford Carol, also known as The Enniscorthy Carol, originates from 12th century Ireland. It's one of the oldest known European carols. For example Loreena McKennitt and Celtic Woman have recorded beautiful versions of this.
> 
> 3) I love writing rambling inner monologues... :)


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock climbed the stairs tardily, deep in thought. He registered John had slumped on his armchair, his eyes were closed and his forehead had creased a bit in thought or agitation. The detective was indecisive whether he should say something regarding their conversation or not. Perhaps not, since John had escaped the scene in the first place. He took off his long coat, grabbed his laptop and took over the sofa. He checked his website (nothing new), John’s blog (fangirls in the comments, oh dear) and then googled Christmas carols. He might as well do some research on the case.

“Sherlock?” John started.

“Mmh?” He took a brief look at his friend over the screen of the laptop.

“Boooys! Evening dears, can I come in?” Mrs Hudson peeked in from the doorway.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” answered Sherlock.

“You got a new case, boys? These criminals, not stopping even on holidays! Anyway, I just popped in to tell you that I’m travelling to my sister’s tomorrow for Christmas. You will be alright, won’t you?” Mrs Hudson fussed.

“Of course.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You shall spend holidays here, won’t you?” Mrs Hudson asked both but turned to John.

“Yeah.” John smiled at sweet Mrs Hudson, who, while insisting she was not their housekeeper, did look after them anyway and it was heart-warming actually.

“Be good and careful, boys, and happy Christmas,” she wished.

“Just a minute,” John sprang up from his chair and took a quick trip to his bedroom upstairs. He handed an envelope to their landlady.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson.” He gave her a tight hug. “You can take a peek.” The envelope contained a pair of classical concert tickets and a handwritten note.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!”

“Yes we should have,” John smiled.

“Thank you, it’s sweet of you.” She squeezed John’s hand and Sherlock got up and gave her a hug.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

“Thank you. Good night, Sherlock, John,” she nodded at them and went back to her own flat downstairs.

John went to the kitchen and Sherlock resumed his surfing on the Internet.

“Tea?” John asked.

“Yeah.”

 

**22.12**

 

The next day was much warmer than the day before but gloomy with metal grey clouds hanging low above the city. John had cursed at himself for chickening out last night. Maybe it would be better to talk with Sherlock after the case anyway. Sherlock had also actually been sleeping, at least for a couple of hours, since the case was in a lull. In the kitchen, safe distance from Sherlock’s chemistry equipment, was a mountain of baked treats wrapped in cellophane with a note: _Some dessert when you have solved the case. Love, Mrs Hudson_. Darling Mrs Hudson!

John put the kettle on. Sherlock wandered into the sitting room already in his usual attire of body-licking dress shirt (deep blue today) and impeccable black suit.

“Waiting for the murder first thing in the morning?”

“It can happen anytime. You should get ready too.” Sherlock eyed John’s dark striped dressing gown disapprovingly. John turned away from his scrutinizing gaze, going back to making tea.

“I’m having my breakfast and morning paper before anything,” John said sternly. He knew food would probably be lost to Sherlock by now but he placed a cup of tea next to him, maybe he would happen to drink it. For himself, he made toast with extra jam.

 

Sherlock was fidgety all day, expressing vocally his frustration, then taking a quick trip to check his experiment at St Bart’s, and coming back to yell at stupid daytime television. John let him rant and sigh while doing some little housekeeping things to prevent the flat from falling into chaos. In the late afternoon Lestrade sent a text message.

“A-ha! John, off to Nowell Road, hurry!”

 

“The First Nowell,” Sherlock announced when they reached their destination. Family houses near the river, some red brick, others white stone, many facades covered in ivy. The house they arrived at was like any other by the road, with white front, some blue Christmas lights in the windows and wooden fence separating it from the neighbours.

“Mmh, today’s carol,” John muttered. Lestrade was waiting for them out on the yard.

“Hello. This one’s a little different, this is victim’s home. He was found by his teenage daughter when she came home from school. His wife is here too, she was at work when it happened. The victim’s name is Jonathan McMaster, 49-year-old mechanic, he had come home for his lunch break, as he usually did,” Lestrade summarized. He led them inside and to the living room where the body was lying on his belly on a crumpled carpet. The room’s windows faced the street but thick curtains blocked the view. The family favoured earthy colours in their furnishings and the room had quite a pleasant feel. Except for the body of course. He was tall, muscular, broad shouldered, dirty blond hair and was wearing his work clothes. He had a faux holly ornament placed on his left palm and an envelope tugged under right one.

“Dead for... four to six hours and same cause of death as Hark,” said John. Sherlock examined victim’s neck bruises and his hands extremely carefully, taking out his magnifying lens to see every little detail. Then he ran his eyes through the setting and surroundings.

“The murderer has been careful. McMaster has struggled with the rope but it looks like the most ordinary braided synthetic rope and the holly is just snatched from the wall.” Sherlock pointed at the decorations running across the wall, which was missing a plastic holly indeed. “These decorations are just to point out that it’s Christmas the killer is attacking against. He was inside waiting for McMaster, he tried to go back when he noticed the intruder but the killer was quickly on him. If he’d surprised him from the corridor, the body would be facing the other way. So, how did he get in?”

Sherlock spun around on his heels and marched to the hallway and towards the back of the house. There was a backdoor in the utility room. The mat in front of the door was well-used, no visible footprints there. Sherlock opened the locked backdoor. There was a small stone paving before the backyard lawn. He looked around and sighed.

“They basically begged someone to come in whenever they fancied.”

John’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline.

“Look!”

“Yes, a flowerpot.”

Sherlock gave John a disappointed look.

“There’s a drier spot here on the pavement. The flowerpot has been moved recently. It hasn’t rained in a few days but last night was surprisingly cold, it was frosty. Today is warmer and frost then melted. And...” Sherlock raised the pot and produced a key from underneath. There was a little magnet holding the key in the bottom of metallic pot.

“Marvellous!”

“You need more synonyms John, it’s starting to get monotonous,” Sherlock quipped dryly.

“Ha, ha.” John glared at the detective.

“Do you think he knew about the key?” Lestrade asked.

“Possibly, he had come straight to the door, over the fence at the back.” Sherlock pointed. Indeed, in the damp grass was a faint trail from the fence to the pavement.

Back inside, Sherlock went finally to retrieve the envelope. Basic bleached C5, unclosed, unsigned, containing a strip of paper; on it two lines of text separated by an empty space in between.

“22: The first Nowell angels did say. Bye bye, lully lullay,” Sherlock read and showed the paper to others.

“Lully lullay? That’s... Coventry Carol.” John’s brow furrowed.

“Seems the murderer gave us a clue,” Sherlock stared at the words. “He’s getting desperate for more attention.”

“Trying to outwit us then, prancing just beyond our grasp.”

“Or wanting to get caught.”

“And that we shall try,” the DI butted in. “Are you done?”

“With the body yes.”

Sherlock swooshed into the kitchen where Mrs McMaster and her daughter sat frozen in unbelief and sadness, gripping each other’s hands.

“Hello, we are investigating this case. Just one thing: did Mr McMaster play Santa Claus this year somewhere?”

John refrained from nudging his friend. At least he had greeted them.

“Wha–? Um, yes, yes he did actually. At kids’ holiday fair in the nearby park on weekends,” Mrs McMaster managed.

“Thank you!” Sherlock dragged John out of the kitchen before he could start apologising McMasters, there was plenty of police officers who would do it anyway. “Let’s go see if there has been a miracle and some of the neighbours noticed something.”

 

No miracle for that day.

“Where are all the neighbour spying grannies?!” Sherlock snapped. John held his chuckle.

“Anything?” Lestrade called out in the middle of his conversation with another officer.

“Nope.”

“What about the clue, the Coventry Carol?” John changed the subject. Sherlock fished his mobile from the breast pocket of his jacket and started typing something.

“If the killer keeps his pattern exact, the next place would be Coventry Road.”

“But?”

“But will he? Would he rather toy with us? Maybe he wants to complete his “advent calendar” and will not be so obvious. He already changed the pattern, we got two carols today.”

“There’s Coventry Street but that’s really busy place,” John thought aloud.

“Yes. The killer could of course risk it but I think not. There’s also Coventry University, a couple of Coventry Closes, Coventry Scaffolding and so on. He could also bet on us to think he’s smart like that and do it at Coventry Road like you’d think he’ll do.”

“Oh god.” John rubbed his eyes, this was nerve wrecking case, having reduced to mostly waiting for the next kill.

“The first line today was “the first Nowell the angels did say”, is there a clue too? Nothing logical. Maybe he chose it only because it fitted with the second line,” mumbled Sherlock. His phone chimed. “Well! I need to take care of something, adieu! Come, John.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade cried out.

“I’m working on it, all the time!” Sherlock shot back. “You do the same.”

 

“Let’s put some eyes out there,” Sherlock grinned when they caught a cab to ride home. He checked his phone and told the cabbie a random address. Of course it wasn’t really a random address, John guessed it had something to do with the homeless. The detective scribbled a note and asked the cab to wait a moment upon reaching the place in question. He went to pass his message to a young man in a too large parka in the corner of the street.

“I asked to keep eye on various places, they may or may not see something and if they do, I will get notified,” Sherlock told John.

“Okay, good.”

“You’ve shown some fairly good knowledge on Christmas carols,” Sherlock stated.

“Mm? Well, I heard them quite a lot as a boy. Mom loves carols, plays and sings them all through December.”

“I see.” Sherlock realised he didn’t know much about John’s family apart from Harry. His parents were alive and together and sent John Christmas and birthday cards but he never visited them. John just didn’t usually speak about them and Sherlock had left the whole thing be. He didn’t know very much about John’s time in the army either. His possible unwillingness to speak about it was understandable. Sherlock knew John as he was now but didn’t know much what had made him the man he knew. Suddenly Sherlock was curious. Maybe he would ask John to tell him something after the case.

John cleared his throat.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said, veering his thoughts back to the case as he tore his eyes away from the doctor.

“Okay.” John wondered what Sherlock had been thinking, wearing such a quizzical look. He turned to the window to watch the dimming cityscape, adorned in green, red, gold and silver.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The First Nowell is most likely of an English origin. It's a bit unclear how old this song actually is. Some sources claim it's from the 18th century, others the 16th or the 17th century. The spelling The First Noel is also used, many pop singers who have recorded this song seem to prefer Noel over Nowell.
> 
> 2) Coventry Carol is from the 16th century and the only surviving carol of a mystery play* that was performed in Coventry, England. The only manuscript got burned in 1800s and today's versions are based on two bad quality transcriptions. There are many wonderful versions recorded but I highly recommend listening to Tori Amos's Candle: Coventry Carol. She has re-imagined the song a little, adding her own lyrics to her version.
> 
> * Mystery play is a play performed in church, depicting scenes from Bible.


	4. Chapter 4

**23.12**

 

The air had unsolved heaviness to it at Baker Street, both tenants of 221B felt it in their bones but neither said a thing as they thought the other one was engaged with the case. The uneasiness had continued through the day and night (John got a few hours sleep, after all, he had learned to sleep in almost anywhere, but it was highly likely Sherlock hadn’t even closed his eyes.). Sherlock was annoyed because he didn’t know which place the murderer was going to strike next and John was queasy knowing there would be a new victim anytime now. They didn’t need to wait for long the next day.

“Death at Coventry Close in Kilburn,” Sherlock announced while already putting on his long billowy coat.

 

The Coventry Close was a short piece of street that soon transformed into the Cathedral Walk, next to a rail road and was therefore a noisy place. A couple of brown apartment buildings looked a little lost, as if thrown into wherever there was space for them. Sherlock and John were the first to reach the latest stage of the murders. A small group of people had gathered where the body was found, at the root of high apartment building. They pushed a few people aside to reach the victim but then stopped like into a wall.

John felt the cold crawl into his being, starting from the fingertips, numbing his limbs and settling around his heart. He was frozen. He couldn’t close his eyes. Perhaps it was better. Now he could see the blond hair, green suit jacket, black jeans and know, against the images his mind wanted to feed him, that this was a random man he didn’t knew instead of... He forced his hand to move and grasp Sherlock’s arm, to feel him there, in flesh and blood.

“John? John, do you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I do.”

Even after so many minutes, days, weeks, months, after so much time, John hadn’t been able to shake away the shadow of that horrible picture of his friend on the pavement, bloody, breathless, broken. Lifeless.

Sherlock was clueless, feeling an unfamiliar moment of helplessness. John was squashing his arm more forcefully than he probably realised. He knew what John was seeing and it stung his heart which the other people claimed he didn’t even possess.

“John, look at me,” he demanded. “I’m here.”

John turned his eyes, which now looked quite black even though they were actually something of dark greyish blue shade, to his very alive friend.

“I know.”

Rationality was so ridiculously easily overthrown by emotions and impressions. John took a deep breath. It was the same and still all different.

“Sorry, a moment of weakness.” John literally shook himself to get rid of the haunting demons.

“No. I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered, knowing how miserably inadequate it was. No spoken language could ever express what he wanted to say. They stared at each other for a moment that in actual time was a fleeting half a minute or less but felt somehow like a short lifetime. John gave a little nod. Then Sherlock broke the eye contact and John let go of his arm. Their little scene had passed unnoticed by babbling, terrified crowd. Sherlock focused on the body; he had fallen from one of the balconies of the higher floors, his left leg was bent unnaturally and he had broken his skull and probably his neck too on the fall and died instantly. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Does anyone of you know the victim?”

“Who are you?” An older woman wrapped in a bright orange shawl asked in return.

“Name’s Sherlock Holmes and I’m investigating this.”

“He’s a neighbour, Garrett Allan, but I don’t know him,” said a younger red-headed woman. “He lives – lived in flat A 35.”

The police sirens wailed in the distance, rapidly closing. Soon DI Lestrade and his team drove to the scene and started buzzing around.

“Oh god,” was the first comment from Lestrade. He took a notice of John’s rigid posture and Sherlock’s subtle shake of head. He collected himself and started calling orders and asking the neighbours if they had seen anything.

Sherlock observed the body. The whole scene was quite disturbing for obvious reasons but he pushed it aside. The victim was a man in his twenties, around 6’1’’ in height, in a fit shape, a sporty type and fashionable, his clothes were trendy and quite expensive. He didn’t have any items with him. The flat would reveal more.

Before Sherlock could do anything else than get up, someone uttered a horrified shriek and pushed him roughly aside.

“Garrett! Oh my god! Oh please no...” A young man with Asian features dropped onto his knees next to the victim, alternatively clutching to dead man’s jacket and covering his mouth with his hands like preventing himself from screaming. He started shaking violently.

“What happened?!” He cried out.

“I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade. Excuse me, who are you?” asked Lestrade who had materialised next to Sherlock.

“I’m... my name’s Ezra Fujiwara,” he managed. “We... he’s my boyfriend.” Tears started to slowly roll down his cheeks and he took off his glasses to wipe his eyes.

“I’m very sorry,” Lestrade said sympathetically and put his hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “Look, could you come over there for a moment? Let my team do their job and we could have a little chat. Okay?”

Ezra let Lestrade help him up and escort him to the paramedics who had arrived too. John followed them with his eyes.

“Will you come with me to check the flat or do you want to talk to him?” Sherlock asked softly.

“I come with you. I’m fine.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

 

The flat was on the 10th floor. The name plaque on the door said Allan & Fujiwara. Said door was locked but Sherlock dug up a lockpick from his coat pocket and soon the lock clicked and opened. John didn’t say anything; he was quite used to detective’s unorthodox methods by now.

It was a biggish two-room apartment. Walls were a temperate shade of extremely light blue but the paintings and posters had strong colours and lines and created a bit restless decor alongside the bright red armchairs and various ornaments. In the corner stood a white plastic Christmas tree adorned with colourful decorations. The tables were buried under stacks of books, piles of papers and photos. Several photographs were of Garrett Allan, both fashion and artistic shoots. Sherlock flipped through the closest piles.

“The victim was a model, as you can see, the boyfriend is studying English linguistics.”

“He’s quite young compared to earlier victims,” John pondered.

“Hmm, yes. I wonder how he fits the pattern.”

The balcony door was ajar. Around the handle was tied a familiar paper slip. Sherlock didn’t get it just yet. He stepped to the balcony which had quite high railing and looked down where the police still were hearing the neighbours. The victim must have been pushed over or threatened to jump down, the former being more likely. The small balcony only had one plain chair in the corner, with a makeshift ashtray next to it. But there was also a fallen glass and water spilled around.

“The killer wears size 10 combat boots,” Sherlock said.

“How do you know?”

“The victim had a glass of water, he threw the liquid at the killer who then stepped in it, here’s a footprint that hasn’t quite yet dried.”

Sherlock moved back in, examining the floor carefully. He sighed. Nothing.

“How did he get in?” He let the question hang in the air. The murderer was unlikely to have the key this time and the lock hadn’t been tampered with. Mr Allan must have let the killer in. Had they known each other? Had the murderer simply rang the doorbell and then threatened Allan and forced him to the balcony? Or had he entered peacefully and then surprised the victim? Sherlock advanced to the coat rack and rummaged through the pockets. Allan’s wallet had ID, cards, receipts, nothing helpful.

“Sherlock?” John called from the main room.

“Yes?”

“Allan’s mobile. Yesterday he’d got a call from a non-contact.”

“Great, let me see.”

John passed a phone of the newest Samsung model to his friend. He also took his own phone and typed the number to UK Phonebook and then to Google too.

“Hm, no results. And if it’s the killer, it’s a prepaid number anyway. But Fujiwara may know something, we should ask him.”

Sherlock put the mobiles away and untied the slip of paper from the balcony door handle.

 _23:_   _Bring me flesh, and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither: Thou and I shall see him dine, when we bear them thither._

“I can’t remember from which song it is.” John shook his head.

“It’s...” Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment, he knew he had read the words when he looked up the carols. “Good King Wenceslas.”

“Ah, yes. Wenceslas? Is there such a place in London?”

“None that I know of. Maybe it’s more complex this time,” replied Sherlock.

 

Back outside the men told Lestrade what they had seen in the flat and then went to Ezra, who looked very lonely and broken at the back of an ambulance.

John briefly stopped Sherlock to say: “Be nice.”

Sherlock swallowed back the automatic sarcastic response. Naturally John sympathized with Ezra, even more than usually, considering the situation. He nodded.

“Hello Ezra. This is Sherlock Holmes and I’m Dr John Watson. We’re sorry for your loss.”

“Hi.” The young man was dressed smartly in simple black trousers of good quality, white dress shirt and dark blue pullover vest with warm woollen jacket over them. His black hair was messed up when he had run his fingers through it great number of times.

“Could we ask a couple of questions?” Sherlock inquired.

“Y-yeah.”

“We noticed— Ahem, were someone supposed to visit you or Mr Allan today?”

“Friends, you mean?”

“Anyone.”

“Umm...”

Sherlock counted to ten in his mind.

“O-oh yeah, the plumber. Housing company’s inspection or something,” said Ezra.

“How did they notify you?”

“The plumber called Garrett.”

“The housing company didn’t inform about it?”

“I... I don’t think so.” Ezra frowned. “Do you know why Garrett... died?” He tried to summon some strength to face whatever they could tell him. John put his hand on Ezra’s shoulder and asked: “What did they the police tell you?”

“Just... oh god.” He buried his face in his hands. “Just that it looks like work of a... serial killer.” The last words were barely audible.

“I’m afraid so. We are going to catch him,” John said firmly.

“There’s one more thing I need to know,” Sherlock spoke again. “Had he been playing Santa Claus at shops, fairs, anywhere?”

Ezra looked flummoxed.

“Umm... Yeah. He did this charity thing with people from a magazine he had modelled for.”

“Okay. That’s all.”

“Thank you Ezra. Do you have family or a friend or someone you could call?” John asked.

“Y-yeah.”

“Call someone, would you? I—” He looked up. Sherlock had wandered a few steps ahead. “It won’t be a magic cure but it can make it a tiny bit easier,” he continued quietly.

“Okay.” Ezra looked like he wanted to ask something but then settled with a goodbye.

“Take care,” John smiled at him a little sadly and waved at a paramedic that they were leaving. He caught up with the detective.

“Thanks,” he said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“For being thoughtful with Ezra.”

“I did it for you.”

“I know. It was kind nonetheless.”

Kind.  It wasn’t often Sherlock had been associated with that particular word in honest sense. He felt oddly misplaced.

They let silence fall over them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Ain't I cruel? :( In a way this chapter was very easy to write because when I was looking for the locations and found this one, I immediately knew what I wanted to write.


	5. Chapter 5

Nasty chilly wind had risen. Detective Inspector Lestrade was ready to let the crime scene to be cleaned but he wanted to make sure Sherlock was done here too. He saw him and the good doctor walk slowly across the parking area. He thank God hadn’t seen it when Sherlock had supposedly jumped from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital but John had and this crime scene disturbed him greatly. Even Sherlock was quieter than usual. Lestrade had seen a fair share of disturbing things in his work but he didn’t think he could even imagine knowing how John had felt then, seeing it all.

“Do you want to check anything anymore?” He asked when the two men came to him.

“No, I’m done,” Sherlock said.

“Well, got anything?”

“The killer disguises himself as a handyman or such. He went to the flat today as plumber. At Wexford Road he was probably a trashman, at Sussex a builder and at Nowell Road he could’ve passed as Mr McMaster or maybe as his co-worker if someone had seen him. Well, I’ll keep you updated.”

“Alright.” Lestrade let them leave and went on with his job.

 

They kept walking towards busier streets to hail a cab. It also just felt good to have a walk after the crime scene’s tense climate.

“Dinner?”

“What?” John wasn’t sure if he had heard right.

“Dinner. You know, food, that stuff you value so much.”

“Mmh...”

“You can eat and I can talk, the usual.”

“I’m not really hungry though,” John confessed.

“Oh? Maybe you should eat anyway.”

“Look who’s talking!”

“You’re always more content after food and you’re distressed now.”

“So you suggest I eat away my problems?”

“Not exactly.”

“Yeah, it’s not a good idea.”

“I guess I wouldn’t know.”

“What?”

“Food, feelings, something you claim I don’t understand.”

“Oh, drop it.”

“I was just trying to be nice.”

“Yeah, and I appreciate it. Just don’t take that martyr attitude.”

“Oh. Sorry I tried to be normal, as you so often would like me to be.”

“Please, Sherlock.”

“Don’t. Nothing’s enough, huh?” Sherlock said through his gritted teeth.

“That’s childish.” John was starting to get irritated now.

“That’s what you always tell me! It’s annoying.”

“So how do you think I feel when you look down on me like I had only one brain cell?”

Sherlock went silent.

“That’s not true,” he said quietly.

“Really now?” John’s voice was cool.

“Yes. I don’t look down on you. And I wish you wouldn’t look down on me either. I do have feelings you know! I just... It’s—,” Sherlock stopped and John was suddenly dying to know what he had meant to say but Sherlock continued, “And I’m hurt too. Yes, I’m a bloody idiot for hurting you. And I don’t know what you expect of me!” He sounded uncharacteristically desperate.

“I... I don’t expect anything from you but to be yourself and to be honest.” John felt moved of Sherlock’s wish to please him.

“Then... Let me be myself,” Sherlock whispered.

“I do, I honestly do,” John assured. “But I’m not perfect; I do unnerve too. I’m sorry,” he continued.

“Yeah. I’m sorry too.” Sherlock didn’t know how to explain without practically shedding every damn wall he had built. Maybe he would, for John. But not now.

“I know it’s complicated,” John said. “And... about what happened earlier, I thought I was over it.”

“I felt lost when you froze,” Sherlock confessed.

“Nobody always knows how to act in these kinds of situations.”

John sighed.

“I know you feel guilty, and for a reason, but you don’t need to keep apologising anymore. It’ll never become past if we dwell on it,” he said, “boy, if I don’t know about traumas... feel free to slap me back to senses if that happens again,” he continued, with a little lighter tone.

“This has been exhausting day. Are we good?” John then asked.

“We are.”

“Come here.” John extended his arms. Sherlock stepped closer, a little confused. John caught him in a tight hug. Sherlock hesitated only a nanosecond and wrapped his arms around John. He pressed carefully his cheek against John’s head.

“People will talk,” he murmured teasingly.

“People do little else, don’t they?” John smiled into Sherlock’s shoulder. He left out a little laugh.

 

It had indeed been exhausting day and Sherlock had made them make a side trip to St Bart’s on their way home, to conclude that experiment of his. John wanted just to crash on the sofa and relax for a little while. Sherlock had composed himself and was pondering the carol. He had got a message from his homeless contact: a handyman with a toolbox had entered the building but a long before the murder. He had been tall and muscular, in blue overalls. But that was all. No one knew when he had left. It was highly likely he was their murderer. He must’ve been hiding in the building before the kill and maybe after it too, to cast off the trails to him.

Back at Baker Street he took the laptop and googled the lyrics to Good King Wenceslas. He pushed aside the emotional overload that had flooded over him today and concentrated on the case. John had thrown himself on the sofa and let Sherlock think in peace.

In the lyrics two names were mentioned, Stephen and Agnes. There were several places in London that had one or the other in their name. More precisely it was St. Agnes. There were churches and schools by that name. Too many possibilities! It couldn’t be another “guess and win”, otherwise it would’ve been more logical to pick up a carol with a clearer indication.

“Oh dear, it’s already Christmas Eve tomorrow,” John suddenly pointed out.

“Yes, it is.”

“And I was hoping for a peaceful Christmas dinner.”

“There’s still time to have it.”

 

“Bohemia!” Sherlock all of a sudden cried out, after a long period of silence.

“Huh?”

“Wenceslas of the song was a duke of Bohemia in 900s! Lounge Bohemia, a rather private bar and lounge in Shoreditch; that must be it. Let’s go.”

John got up, feeling newly energized after that little nap and a good cup of tea, and followed his friend out, who was already half out of the door.

Sherlock used his nearly magical skills to summon a cab and they headed for Shoreditch.

 

The entrance to the lounge was rather inconspicuous, surrounded by much flashier places. They entered and went down the stairs. The lounge was warmly lit, walls covered with newspaper pages and foreign text. It looked cosy; soft and warm colours and tables for the groups. They were greeted by the staff: “Do you have a reservation?”

“Police,” Sherlock said quietly and flashed a badge convincingly but too fast for the waiter to look it properly. No doubt it was one of Lestrade’s. John sometimes wondered how the DI explained all the missing badges at the Yard.

“What’s this?” The waiter demanded boggled.

“We suspect a serial killer might’ve planned to come here tonight,” Sherlock said.

“Oh my god.”

“We’d like to have a look around.”

“I should tell the manager.”

“Yes, do that.”

The waiter jotted away and Sherlock and John walked slowly further in, assessing the patrons. Almost all tables were full, mostly young people, enjoying the holiday days off. No one seemed to fit the killer’s features.

“You said it’s Christmas the killer is attacking against, you think he’s got some kind of trauma of it?” John asked in a low voice.

“Yes, probably.”

“Father Christmas in particular.”

“Likely.”

The lounge wasn’t terribly big so it was soon checked.

“Nothing. Let’s check the loo.”

The bathrooms were made hard to locate: someone’s bright idea had been to camouflage the door in the wallpaper. One of the booths rewarded them with not a new victim but a new clue. Sherlock pulled an almost concealed paper slip from behind a paper rack.

“24: O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here,” he recited.

“Emmanuel...”

“The Emmanuel Centre in Westminster,” commented Sherlock. The manager caught them when they were leaving.

“What’s this police business?” He enquired worriedly but imperatively.

“False alarm,” Sherlock grinned almost, but just almost, apologetically and rushed John out of the lounge and the staff members were left in mystification.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Good King Wenceslas tells a story of a king Wenceslas who goes out to give alms to a poor peasant in harsh winter weather on Christmas. It's based on life of a Bohemian duke. Lyrics were written in the 19th century in England and set to a tune of Finnish spring carol from 13th century. For example Blackmore's Night and Loreena McKennitt have recorded fine versions of this.
> 
> 2) O'come, O'come Emmanuel was originally in Latin, the English translation was done in the 19th century. Music is probably French origin. The Latin text is from the 12th century. For a little different version of this traditional song, I can again recommend Tori Amos and her song Emmanuel.
> 
> 3) The short arguing scene didn't come out quite as I wanted. I had the hug and line about dwelling in the past in my head first and then I had to write what lead to it, it's always harder to work in that order!


	6. Chapter 6

**24.12**

 

The clocks had stricken midnight and the Christmas Eve reached this part of the world. The red brick building of Emmanuel Centre looked peaceful. The gates were closed at the triple arch entrance.

“Ah, look, we are being expected,” Sherlock pointed out how the rightmost door was very very slightly ajar. Bypassers glimpsing at the doors wouldn’t notice it since no one would think they would be open anymore, with the gates closed.

“The CCTV...”

“We are technically not breaking in since the door is open and besides, when we catch the criminal, all they can do is scold us.” By these words, Sherlock climbed over the low gates, gracefully as ever. John groaned and climbed after the detective, who had already stepped inside, having paused just long enough to see that the slot for the lock’s tongue had been half filled with a rubbery material to prevent the door from locking.

The centre consisted of the Evangelical church and conference rooms available for various events. The vaulted roof above gave a majestic feel to the place. A giant cross hung on the opposite wall of the entrance, and up high passages from the Bible were written in golden metal letters, circling the dome. In the dark silence of the night it had very heavy atmosphere.

“He probably has a hostage,” Sherlock said with low voice.

“Hmm?”

Sherlock pointed out a poster advertising a children’s Christmas event, with carols, Father Christmas et cetera, held 23rd December.

“Oh, right. Didn’t take the gun,” remarked John.

“Fortunately some of us prepared better.” Sherlock grinned and passed John his Sig Sauer. John tucked the gun away and nodded sternly. Sherlock took his phone and sent a text to Lestrade.

“You might not even need it though,” he said.

They made their way up the stairs at the back of the hall, to the auditorium which Sherlock thought the somewhat dramatic killer would likely choose as the stage of this chapter. The doors opened to a grand, dim, churchlike room that had arched niches with rectangular windows, blue fitted carpet and cherry wood coloured benches. In the middle of the vaulted ceiling was a huge round dimmed glass window. More words from the Bible were running around the ceiling, above the windows. The rows were graduated and down on the speaker’s podium, was the killer, waiting for his audience. He was in his 30s, around 6'2'' in height, muscular, had brown hair and was wearing those blue overalls and combat boots. Next to him an older man dressed as Santa Claus was gagged and tied up to a chair. He was sweaty and slightly shivering of fear as the barrel of a Browning pistol was pressed to his temple.

“Hello, nice to meet you finally,” the criminal said in chatty tone.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied as he slowly advanced towards the podium, John tailing him.

“Uh huh. You can stop right there.” He moved the gunpoint from his hostage to Sherlock and John before they reached the end of rows.

“Nice little play you arranged Mr...?”

“Tenner.”

“You do realise there’s no way out of this for you,” John stated.

“No? Perhaps not. Or perhaps three gifts make better than one.”

“What evil did Santa do to you?” Sherlock asked casually. The hostage was scared but seemed otherwise fine. Tenner had moved the gun back at the man but was keeping his eyes on the detective and the doctor.

“Ah, there’s the thing. Nothing.” Tenner’s voice was tense.

“That’s hardly Santa’s fault, as he doesn’t exist.”

“They could’ve pretended!”

“I see. Your parents,” Sherlock started but quickly corrected himself when he saw Tenner’s face shift, “no, not parents, other relatives. Aunt or uncle?”

“I never had anything nice to tell at school after holidays.”

“And then later you decided that people who aren’t grateful for Christmas don’t deserve it at all.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes! They don’t want it and those who do don’t get it, the logical answer is not to have it at all,” said Tenner in morbid tone.

“What about the carols?” John asked, buying time as he evaluated the situation.

“Nice touch, weren’t they?” Tenner just said.

“He listened to them as a kid, and later too, found comfort in them,” Sherlock jumped in, “you know them well and chose lines speaking about deliverance, good news and comfort. All the carols speak about good the God, Jesus or a saint brings, except for Coventry Carol which is a lullaby to all lost children, sad but comforting in a way.”

All of them fell silent.

“So, what changed?” Sherlock asked, taking a couple of careful steps closer to the podium, and John shifted slightly to the side.

“Don’t you already know it? Being so smart.”

“You simply lost faith in any angel, divine or mortal, to come and save you. The words turned hollow,” Sherlock said, not able to resist answering, “you chose a religious place for grande finale, you think even that betrayed you. Commercial Christmas denied, then religious as well.”

Tenner didn’t reply.

“Put the gun down, would you? Let’s not do more harm,” John said in calm voice, taking a step closer.

“There’s nothing to lose anymore,” Tenner said sadly.

Sherlock and John shared a brief look and decided silently they were close enough to act. They readied themselves to spring into action. But Tenner estimated it. At the same time Sherlock bolted towards the killer and he pointed the gun at the detective. The time seemed to slow into almost standstill as John saw that he really was going to shoot, his hand tightening the grip from the gun.

“Sherlock, no!” John shouted and half tackled, half tripped his friend. Sherlock cried out as he hit the floor painfully, hip first, sensing the bullet had missed by a few precious inches.

John rolled back on his feet, pulling his Sig Sauer.

“Drop it,” he commanded Tenner. “Now.”

“I said there’s nothing to lose,” Tenner reminded him.

He slowly changed his target back to the hostage who whimpered in fear.

When John had tackled him, Sherlock had rolled next to the podium. Currently he was mostly out of Tenner’s sight, and hopefully out of mind too, thanks to elevated platform. His left hip was nastly aching but he tried to ignore it. Fortunately he hadn’t hit his head. He saw John’s eyes dart quickly at the direction of the hostage and then back to Tenner. So he had “Santa” at the gunpoint again. Sherlock bolted up to the podium, slightly from the left, and before Tenner had time to react, tackled him. They fell down to the floor, Tenner back first, the air escaping from his lungs on the impact. Sherlock scrambled for his gun hand, gripping his wrist. Despite gasping for breath, Tenner fought back with his free left hand, trying to push Sherlock away and then grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking his head back. Sherlock yelped.

“Sherlock!” John shouted as he dashed to help. Tenner tugged again, harder, and Sherlock couldn’t help releasing his hold of Tenner’s right hand but before he could act, John used the butt of his gun to knock the criminal out cold. His body slumped and John swiftly kicked the pistol out of his hand. Sherlock rolled away from Tenner.

“Ouch.”

“Are you okay?” John hurried to his friend.

“Sore hip, arm and scalp but I’m fine.” Sherlock croaked. “He fights dirty!”

“You utterly reckless idiot!” John cried out. “What if I had fired?!”

“But you didn’t.”

“I was this close to!” He held his thumb and index finger half an inch apart.

“At least we don’t need to go through explaining gunshots,” Sherlock grinned, getting up with a grimace. “Shouldn’t you free him?” He continued. John realised only now that the hostage was still tied to the chair.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” John said sheepishly when he unfastened the man’s ties.

“I’m Dr John Watson and there’s my friend Sherlock Holmes. Are you alright?” He assessed the man; he looked completely nerve-wrecked but otherwise unharmed.

“T-Tim Wells,” he introduced himself, “I’m fine, j-just shaken. Thank you, thank you so much. You two s-saved my life,” he continued, relieved.

“Just wait there, police and paramedics will be here soon,” John said calmly. He checked Tenner too, he was alright but would wake up with hell of a headache. They tied his hands in case he would come to before the police reached the centre.

 

Indeed, it was not long before DI Lestrade and his team arrived.

“Oh you two. I’ve long lost the hope you’d wait us to come along,” he sighed, not entirely serious but not outright joking either.

“Well, we caught him. And quite neatly this time too,” Sherlock remarked only slightly smugly. John gave him one of his “oh please”-looks.

“So, what’s the deal with him?” Asked Lestrade.

“Walter Tenner, 34, childhood trauma, lost his Christmas spirit, quite dramatically, and decided to give the world back what it deserved.”

“Sad case really,” John commented.

“He’s a construction worker; brick, plaster, saw dust remains on the clothes and under nails before you ask. Done fairly well until now.”

“One of those “you’d never believe” cases, then,” Lestrade summed up.

“Basically. He wanted to be heard, to be noticed.”

“Come to the Yard to give your statements, it’s holidays and I plan to relax after this is wrapped up.” The Detective Inspector was headstrong on the matter.

They later heard details of Tenner’s plans. He had chosen his victims in the beginning of the month, followed them enough to learn about them for his murder calendar.

 

“I don’t think I want to hear carols this Christmas,” John said when they had returned to the quietness that for once was prevailing at Baker Street.

“Not even if I play them?” Sherlock teased.

John rolled his eyes.

“Good the case is solved,” he mused.

“Good puzzle maybe but we had to play till the end, in the end it went just like Tenner wanted,” Sherlock remarked, a bit disappointed for not catching him in Coventry Close.

“He would’ve probably caused a new scene if he had... pulled this through.” John noted.

“How’s the hip?” He changed the subject.

“It’s fine. It’ll be purple, that’s all.”

“Yeah, okay. Glad you’re alright. Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This was the hardest chapter to write and the one I'm least happy with. :( I rewrote the scene in the auditorium about thousand times... I also hadn't planned Tenner to have so strong religious side, the character just turned that way during the writing. I just had planned a revenge motive for him but then he became this sort of a "lost soul".


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So syrupy! Some rambly notes at the end.

The morning wasn’t particularly pretty, the light greyness draped around London, the air was a few plus degrees, no hope for snow this Christmas. But that didn’t matter. It was how London was and John was feeling quite good after solid night’s sleep. Sherlock hadn’t come out of his bedroom yet, so John made some breakfast only for himself and ate it in the silence of the morning.

He had just returned from the grocery shop (good thing some shops pitied the last-minute people!) when Sherlock emerged from his room, still wearing his pajamas and red silk dressing gown.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Hmph,” he only harrumphed and wandered to the kitchen to put the kettle on. When John was unloading the groceries, Sherlock suddenly focused.

“Hm. What if you leave cooking for tomorrow and let me take you out for dinner tonight?” He suggested. John turned at him with a curious expression.

“What?”

“I said to leave cook—“

“Yes, I heard you first time,” John interrupted, “you just... phrased it differently than normally. Usually you just say “dinner?” or “let’s go eat”. That sounded more like...” He stopped himself. “Eh, nothing.”

“More like...?” Sherlock let it hang in the air.

“Asking me out. I mean, for a date,” said John, dropping his eyes to the bag of potatoes he still held in his hands. He hesitated for a brief breath.

Oh, to hell with it.

“Is it? A date?” John dared.

Sherlock’s pale eyes flashed but didn’t betray what he was thinking. He noticed how John gripped anxiously the now forgotten potato bag and how his face looked... cautiously hopeful?

“If...”

“If...?” John prompted.

“If you want it to be.”

John gave a little relieved laugh.

“Oh god yes.”

Sherlock blinked once, twice. He let a warm, genuinely pleased smile spread on his face.

“Date it is then.”

 

John had wondered what strings Sherlock had pulled to get a table for them on Christmas Eve on such a short notice but he didn’t care. The modern French restaurant had been pleasantly peaceful, and their Christmas menu with poached turkey, grilled lobster, Christmas pudding and more, accompanied with fine red wine, had been exquisitely delicious.

 

The hours between their conversation in the kitchen and entering the restaurant had been thought-filled. John had at first been confused: Sherlock didn’t do dating, he didn’t do relationships. John was special then. He had felt flattered. But then his confusion had turned to slight nervousness: what was exactly happening? Something he had been secretly hoping for but something of an unknown territory. And would this after all be any different than their usual dinners, their usual time together? People already assumed them to be a couple. He had nothing to go on because Sherlock hadn’t had a single date or anything as long as John had known him, neither he had ever heard if he had had anyone in the past.  There was the Adler case but John still had no idea what it really had been, how much of it had been game and how much true. John hadn’t also been able not to ponder what Sherlock thought of physical intimacy. He had turned over these thoughts in his head again and again but at the root of it all, he had felt happy. He had straightened the dark suit jacket and nodded at himself in the mirror contently.

Sherlock had been pacing around his room, a little nervous too although he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone ever. He had been wondering what John expected from him, what John was thinking right now, did he fear Sherlock was playing some game with him, what John was feeling now? John, John, John.  Sherlock had felt oddly adrift, he had been living behind the self-built walls for so long that being in any other way could feel alien, but he had also felt relieved, John wanted to go on _a date_ with _him_. He had then come to the conclusion that, for once, too much thinking might just hinder things, and had picked up his violin to play, not Christmas carols, but pieces from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker.

When they had stepped in to the restaurant and sat to their table, their nervousness had disappeared.

“John? I was wondering...” Sherlock had started during the first course of the menu.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know much about what you did before we met... In detail I mean. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear something.”

John had smiled. Genuinely polite Sherlock was something of a revelation.

“Are you sure? You may find a lot of it dull.”

“There must be a lot of interesting stories to tell,” Sherlock had said, “and give yourself some credit; you’re not dull.”

John had laughed heartily.

“I’ll remember that next time you yell at me how dull I am to want some fridge shelves for actual food,” he had smirked.

Sherlock had mock-pouted.

“What would you like to hear, then?” John had asked softly, enjoying finding these new sides of the detective, which would most likely be only his privilege to see.

“Anything.”

That evening had been extraordinary if one knew how the dinners with these two people usually were; Sherlock had been mostly listening, making Sherlock-y remarks here and there, and John had been telling about many things he had never expected to share with Sherlock, not because they were something he tried to keep secret but because he hadn’t thought Sherlock would care to hear them.

 

 In a city it was never truly dark, especially not during holidays. Almost every building had a shining touch of blue, yellow, red, white or green. It was beautiful how the dark made the lights stand out and soften the rough edges. Sherlock and John stepped out of the restaurant, heading slowly back to Baker Street by foot.

“It was lovely,” John said. Sherlock nodded and, a little shyly, reached for John’s hand, twining their gloved fingers together. Of course he had touched John various times before but now he did it for a different reason. He was happy to feel John give an assuring squeeze. They walked the short distance to home in silence, not awkward one but content.

 

They hung their coats in the rack, wandered upstairs and for a moment John felt like he was falling. Head first into a rabbit hole.

“Come here.” He guided Sherlock, who was still surprisingly quiet, to sit on the sofa. Carefully, he cupped Sherlock’s right cheek and stroked the high cheekbone with his thumb. Sherlock just leaned on his hand. John put another hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled him closer. He let his hand wander from the shoulder to the neck and then, slowly, to leave Sherlock time to react if he was feeling unsure, brought their lips together. He kissed Sherlock gently, it was a slow, sweet, exploratory. Sherlock’s lips tasted of the clementine that had finished the menu at the restaurant.

Sherlock let John kiss him tenderly before answering it, with unexpected passion. He let them take only a quick gasp of air before crushing their lips together again, pouring into it fiery love worth of all those lost moments, letting all his mental walls crumble for this one person, deciding it was worth the risk. John caught up after a flash of surprise, letting himself drown into the torrent of the kiss.

After breaking the kiss they stayed close, foreheads pressed together.

“Oh, Sherlock. I never thought...” John breathed, still a bit amazed this was true. He pulled back to see Sherlock’s face but keeping his hands on Sherlock’s neck, caressing the skin with his fingers.

“Of what?” He let his lips curve into a little lopsided smile.

“That you’d... feel the same way. You know, with all your “married to work” and such.”

“Oh, John. You’re the exception to the rules, I thought you had realised that by now.” Sherlock started tracing John’s face with his long fingers. “And you insisted on liking women.”

“Well, you’re a kind of exception too. Aren’t we silly?” John laughed and cupped Sherlock cheeks again to pull him for another kiss, a delicate and sensitive. Sherlock let his lips roam from John’s to his jawline and down to his neck. After for so long of “you can look but not touch”, Sherlock now wanted to touch John everywhere, constantly, to map every inch of him. John let out a breathy moan. Sherlock smiled mischievously at him. John pushed aside a few wayward curls from Sherlock’s brow. He was leaning in for another kiss but he caught a sight of the clock: ten past midnight.

 

**25.12**

 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” John whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Sherlock hadn’t used those words in years and never had he meant them as much as he meant them now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here we are. I really can't resist cheesy, cutesy stuff. Sorry if Sherlock seemed OOC for you, in my head it's not that Sherlock is without feelings or not capable to show them but exactly as he says in the Hounds of the Baskerville, he has distanced himself from that willingly (oh, I could go on about this forever), much like Vulcans indeed ("Okay, Spock.").
> 
> The music that inspired the case: Christmas carols. I chose the old, traditional carols and of course I had to use the ones that had names that I could find in London. I'm not actually a religious person at all but I do appreciate beautiful music (I'm happy I managed to include The Coventry Carol 'cause that's a really pretty song.).
> 
> More on music: Violin is my favourite instrument (piano and harpsichord being other two faves) and I really really wanted to squeeze in a mention of Sherlock playing something! Nutcracker ballet is one of my favourite classical compositions and if carols are out of question (let's be nice to John, shall we?), what better choice for holidays than Nutcracker?
> 
> Internet is truly wonderful, I wouldn't have been able to write this story without Google Maps and various websites. :D (I've never been to London! Someday...)


End file.
